


Loving Duality

by forestofmyown



Category: Elder Scrolls V: Skyrim
Genre: Ableism, Assassins & Hitmen, F/M, Gender-Neutral Pronouns, M/M, Other, Reader-Insert, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-12
Updated: 2017-01-12
Packaged: 2018-09-16 23:27:51
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,937
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9294398
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/forestofmyown/pseuds/forestofmyown
Summary: Follows the Dark Brotherhood storyline and after, focusing on the growing feelings of you, the Listener, for the Fool of Hearts, and how to approach loving someone so different.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Rewrite of a fic to be an imagine. Originally posted at: http://imaginingmyforest.tumblr.com/
> 
> I tried to be as thoughtful and tactful and respectful as I could in this one, so let me know if I messed up. The theme of the story is the acceptance of Cicero’s neuroatypicality, and I hope it comes across.

You’re angry and disillusioned, a runaway lost in Skyrim and now a survivor of a dragon attack. The Empire that you always depended on to protect you tried to execute you; the promise of a new life, free from judgment, has proved nothing but a child's dream as you wander the road from Whiterun, weak with hunger, carrying no money, and having no idea where you are or where you should go. And you have only yourself to blame.

Some would say getting caught up in that Stormcloak camp had been the start of your fate; others, escaping Helgen with your life; only you yourself knows the truth of it all, however. Your fate started on that lonely road, with the threat of rain overhead and despair clouding your heart. For you hear him first, the loud cries of anger and frustration up ahead, then see the broken down wagon.

You’re down on your luck, as well, and sympathize. He's got a funny face and a funny way of speaking, acting. For the first time in a long time you’re smiling, genuinely, and can't understand how or why anyone would turn away from such childish joy. You are determined to help and, even though you calm the local farmer's fears, you can't convince him to help, but a compromise brings you running back to the stranded jester and his poor dead mother with the tools they need, and two silly minds somehow waste away the afternoon and eventually fix his wagon wheel.

You don't know where you’re going, anyway, so Dawnstar up north with such good company (minus the coffin) sounds like the best offer you’ve had since arriving in Skyrim, and you climb aboard. They are all smiles and chatter, even when the rains finally come pouring down on them, and the trip is filled with laughter and humor that turns a tad twisted at times, and you love it. Sitting in that rickety wagon with a dead woman and a madman on a freezing cold evening in the drench of rain, you’ve never felt more at home.

When it's time to part ways, you’re grasping for some excuse, anything to stay with him, but he doesn't seem to notice and you realize whatever he has to do now is very personal, and back off. Stranded in Dawnstar, you fight the panic of knowing you’re alone again and try to recover that feeling of home. 

It doesn't come.

It's been over a month since then, and the memory of that strange jester on the road is faded but fond. You waited, hoping he'd come back, hoping to see him again, but he never did and you had to move on. Your first friend, the only comfort in this strange place, you try to forget. You work in the mines, long days in the cold, hard labor and little reward, and live out of the local inn. You aren’t miserable, however, not like before, and enjoy the feel of ever growing muscles, the pain and strain that tell you your life means something. But you know you can't keep living like this, so you moves south-east.

In Windhelm, you hear rumors of a boy.

You’re half tempted to turn your weapon on the woman in dark armor perched on the shelf. You don't like being kidnapped in the night and manipulated like this. Killing isn't a problem. In Tamriel, life came cheap, you'd learned that early on, and just being able to walk down a road usually meant you had to have to steel to defend yourself. Maybe murdering a cruel old woman is different than protecting yourself from bandits, but you don't really see it that way. Being told by your kidnapper you have to kill one of these three bound, gagged strangers in cold blood, however, doesn't sit right at all.

But your mind was reeling, connecting tiny threads of memories that shouldn't mean anything, but do. The reason you had taken up Aventus Aretino's cause in the first place, the words he'd said and the book you'd taken from him that had struck a chord.

“Sweet Mother, Sweet Mother, send your child unto me ...”

“I was transporting my dear, sweet mother ...”

Sweet Mother.

You read Aventus' book. You looked, and found more. You’re well versed now, well read on the subject that is now a part of your life.

The Dark Brotherhood.

Could that jester, that crazy man with the sweet smile and deceptive eyes, really be a part of this organization? You want to know. You've got nothing to lose. You decide that killing one more angry old woman won't bother you that much.

At first you are disappointed. After your first contract, however, you find your decision right, and dear Cicero joins the family.

You suppose it should bother you that the person you feel closest to, closer than you’ve ever been to another person, is a murderer and a madman. But you note idly to yourself that you’re now a murderer, too, and despite this not being the free life you'd always dreamed of, you do feel at home again. You awake at night in cold sweats sometimes still, nightmares haunting you, your actions, your kills. Sometimes you feel guilty, sometimes you think you regret it all, but then you see his smiling face, hear his rapturous cries, and all of that melts away. You’re happy. You'll never regret this, not the time you can spend with him.

Most think him utterly nonsensical, but you knows there is more to him than that. Astrid sees it too, and somehow it has the opposite affect on her that it has on you. The Nord grows more and more suspicious, while you grow more curious. Those moments of lucidity, when his eyes are alight, calculating, fierce, you feel a flood of fascination. You see a man underneath the child you know, and you want to know this side of him, too.

It is with this in mind that you follow your orders. Astrid's paranoia has you hiding inside the Night Mother's coffin, an act you know would infuriate him if he knew. Your fear overlap with your excitement; you want to see that gleam in his eyes, want to see the anger of a man surge through him, towards you. It's exhilarating. It dampens your feelings of betrayal, your guilt at spying on him.

When he finds you, you see it. In all his glory, he attacks, rampages, roars. He pulls you from your hiding place, throws you to the floor, holds a knife to your throat as he straddles you, and you’re terrified, but there's more. More than the terror, more than the feel of cold steel on your neck, there's the awareness of him, not foolish, childish, giggling, innocent Cicero. He's all male, all muscle, all fury and power and the Night Mother's guardian, glorious.

And as you murmur the words his mother wants him to hear, you’re aware that the Matron means nothing to you. The Night Mother you serve, the Brotherhood you support, the crimes you commit, they are all for him. As he pulls you up in joy, singing and dancing and ecstasy, innocent again, you realizes you'll never be able to draw the line between the two Cicero's you thought you knew again. Your hands burn where he holds you, your heart leaps with his happiness, and you'll do whatever the Night Mother asks you for his sake. Listener? You can do that. If it keeps him this happy.

If he'll keep looking at you like that.

Proud. Thrilled. Those golden eyes that are lit like a child's and intense like a man's burn right through you.

You don't understand it. It baffles you, completely confuses and floors you, these people. Don't they know? Haven't they seen? Have they no eyes, no mind, do they not understand? Astrid is madder than she ever believed Cicero to be if she thinks you will do this for her. 

She wants you to kill him. Cicero.

Cicero.

As if you would. It's almost laughable. You stare at the Speaker, waiting for her to realize her mistake, to come to her senses. There is no change. The whole room is watching, waiting.

They really don't know. They haven't realized, have no idea. 

That you joined the Brotherhood, a guild of hired assassins, pledged your life to subterfuge and murder, only on the off chance of meeting him again. That you stayed only because he was there, because you could see him every day. That you make your kills with growing ease, growing enthusiasm, lessening guilt, only because you knew he could only live through you. That you return so quickly to tell him your missions, to narrate your kills, to see him tremble with restrained adrenalin as he imagines it, wishes he was there, wishing he could take lives again. That every moment not on a contract was spent in his company, that you barely spoke to anyone else in your cave home. 

That you would never kill him. Could never. That you will kill them all before you’d hurt him. That you would never let them harm him.

They don't see it. Don't see your confusion, the absurd laughter bubbling inside you, don't know your devotion. They are strangers to you, and you, apparently, to them.

With the practiced ease they have taught you so well, you promise to do the deed. You lie.

You call out to him when you enter the Dawnstar Sanctuary. You can hear his voice echoing through the halls, but his jeers are not answers. You make your way through, make your way to him, time fading so fast in your head. You know he's set these traps for you, that he thinks you’re here to kill him and thus he must kill you first, but all you can think is that he's injured. It's been a long time since you’ve felt this kind of fear, so pure and unaccompanied by some other twisted emotion. There's nothing else, no worry for your own safety, no feelings of resentment or fascination. You’re only afraid. You can't lose him.

You feel your heart stutter in your chest at the sight of him. He is on the floor, curled in on himself, smiling and holding his gashing wound, speaking through a swelling of pain. You stand before him, legs locked in place, mind halting, and he is begging you for his life as though he doesn't know, either. That he's been as unobservant as the rest of them, that he has no idea that he's the only one that matters to you, ever has.

He hasn't even finished his plea when you finally regain control of your body and throws yourself at his side. He flinches, probably expecting a knife, but you’re yanking his arms away, panic guiding you, mind racing, inspecting his wounds. As an assassin, you’ve seen worse. Is it fatal? You can't tell. You’re no healer, but you press your palms to his side in a heartbeat, fingers slipping through the tears in his tunic, sliding through slick blood and across tattered flesh, forcing the warmth of Restoration out of you and into him. 

When the deed is done, there is silence. You slowly pull your hands away, loathing the loss of his skin under your touch, confused by this feeling, too concerned for his safety to take the time to inspect it. He's staring at his side curiously, his healed skin still stained but showing through, and his eyes flicker up to meet yours, curious and surprised and more.

Your mouth is dry, you can barely speak. But you force out the words, averting your gaze. “I killed you. You're dead.”

You get up. You don't want to leave him, think, for a moment, of running away together. But the Brotherhood will hunt you. They've caught you before. You'll go to them, tell them your lies. You'll protect him, even if it means you'll be apart. You go.

It's been awhile since that day, you’ve heard no word from him since. As soon as you'd had the chance to sneak away, you'd gone back to Dawnstar to check on him, and he'd been gone. Now, the entirety of the Brotherhood is dead except three, and you wish so much you could find him, tell him, bring him home–to you. You’ve moved into the Dawnstar Sanctuary, and the lonely halls of the place remind you of him, send a strange pang through you that you can't describe. You wonder, not for the first time since you almost lost him, if you love him. You have no answer, not yet.

You leave your last two family members to their own devices and exits the sanctuary, unsure of where you’re going but certain you need air, need out of that place holding your most painful–and most confusing–memories. And then he's there.

He comes from above, you feel him there, and as he leaps down onto you, you instinctively ready to fight back–until you realize it's him. His knees hit you chest and he rides your falling body into the snow, legs locking you on the ground, settled on either side. He has his knife to your throat again before you can even catch your breath, and you’re reminded of that moment when he pulled you from the Night Mother's coffin and had pinned you just like this. You had been lost in the exhilaration of it, and you feel it again now, unhampered by the excess emotions of your secrecy. 

You can identify them now. The feelings that flow through you, like cool lava in your veins. Your relief at seeing him again, knowing he's okay. The thrum of your pulse at the feel of his body on yours, the heat in your cheeks as you look up into his face, his triumphant, conquering smile. Your awareness of him, your attraction. And your absolute disinterest in fighting back, your complete lack of fear for your life at the feel of his dagger against your neck. He's here, he's okay, he's back, he's with you.

You have your answer now. You love him, so much.

He's threatening you, and you’re so entranced by the movement of his lips, the sound of his voice, the bob of his throat, the heave of his chest, the look in his eyes, that you barely register his meaning. And then you’re smiling, as serene as you’ve ever been.

“Now you will die!”

“Okay.”

It's as easy as that, you think. It's okay. Completely okay.

He seems put off by your words, brows raising. “Okay?”

“Okay.”

“What madness is this?” he asks, pressure on the blade slackening. “Cicero thought himself the only one mad, but has the Listener lost their senses too? To welcome death so easily? Do you wish to meet our Father so soon?”

You shake your head, body limp beneath him. It's hard to breathe, but you don't mind. You like the view, the position, a dark little part of you chuckles. “It's okay because it's you, that's all.”

You can see it in your mind, imagine it. The ecstasy on his face, the thrill of the kill that has been denied him for so long. The motion of his hands, nimble fingers, as he plunges in the blade, pierces you with the length of it (that dark part of you is smirking, growing hot). It's okay to be killed by him. To be his target, the center of his attention, to fill a role in his life that is so … intimate, the relationship of a murderer and the murdered, the dance of death.

The jester's eyes are locked on you, penetrating. You are taken in with their intensity, how they see you, watch you, evaluate. His words are low, a growl that stirs your soul and more. “Now that is madness.”

He didn't kill you. He'd never intended to. The moment is lost as quickly as it had come, and the knife is sheathed and the fool is on his feet, laughing and explaining and saying it was all a joke. He makes himself at home, taking up his duties caring for his mother again, and the remaining brother and sister of the night shake off their confusion into reluctant acceptance. Life takes up the semblance of normalcy, a routine forming, life continuing. Nazir and the Night Mother both continue to provide contracts, and you accept them all, faithful Cicero at finally free to be at your side.

He is ecstatic to be allowed along, to once again take up the art of killing. His devotion to his Listener knows no ends, and you are torn between enjoying his company and attentions and worrying that you are only the Listener to him, nothing more. You grow angry with him at times, and lose yourself one day enough to order him to call you by name. You hide it under the guise of covertness, keeping your titles secret in public, but you melt when your name graces his lips.

You haven't told him. Don't know if you ever can. You are overwhelmed, at times, with the urges of attraction. You want him, and his madness blurs so many lines. His sweet innocence calls to your dominance, makes you want to run a finger under his chin and stare into those wide eyes, to take him. His bouts of swift clarity, however, evoke the desire to be held by him, taken in his arms and to be devoured by his intense gaze, a slave to him. Does he know what he does to you?

Sometimes, you think he does. In those moments of lucidity, when Cicero, the man, shines through, you think he knows. You think he revels in it, laughing at you, toying. You can't be sure.

It makes it easier to think of him as two, but you know better. He is one, all wild. His mind may be clearer at some times more so than others, but it's the same mind with the same thoughts, the same man. They joy, the bloodlust, the intensity, the naivety, the loyalty. You treasure it all, love every bit of him. Even if he throws your whole world into confusion.

You’re having those unbidden thoughts again, the more melancholy of your musings, as they approach their target. He's with you again, excited for the kill, the two of you sneaking into Riften, and someone's going to die. You don't need him, not for this, and he doesn't need you either, and yet you are going in side by side. He wants to share this with you, his wonder, his joy, his skill. You wonder with a sinking heart if he would still be like this to you if you weren't the Listener, the one he'd been waiting for, hand chosen by his beloved mother.

You aren't paying close enough attention, and in a moment the contract is compromised. The deed is done, but you've been seen. You kill as you must, and run. You’ve got his hand, are pulling–he'll kill them all if you don't. You go over a wall, over a rail, and down into the river below and ride the flow out of the city. A few miles out you drag yourselves, soaking, to shore, and immediately start stripping off waterlogged clothing. You’ve got spares, just as wet, but at least they aren't your Brotherhood outfits.

You shed your hood, gloves, shoes, and are pulling out your matching jester outfits, your cover. He's got on your old shrouded armor, and it's harder to remove, the hood stuck to his head.

You are both out of breath and laughing, amused by your escape, swim, and drenched outfits. You use your magic to dry some towels as he finally manages to yank a boot off, the action sending him toppling over backwards. You’re laughing even more, but he's pleased with himself, proceeding to the next boot. By the time you’ve dried the towel he's got himself caught in his armor, the leather stuck halfway up his chest with one arm pinned to his body. He looks at you from under the folds, helpless.

Snorting and sighing both at once, you move towards him on your knees, settling in front, and tuck your fingers under the armor, ignoring the way the skin contact sends shivers through your body. You yank it up, he pulls himself down, and eventually the leather comes sliding over his head and the Imperial is free, to his delight. 

“Foolish Cicero.” You both say at the same time, eyes meeting in camaraderie. You begin toweling his hair, ruffling the fabric over his head playfully, working to dry him and tease him at the same time. A single bright eye peeks out from under the soft cotton, and you’re lost in that honey-gold. For an instant you’re overwhelmed by that look, by the drip of the water from his ginger hair, by the wet sheen of his bare chest and shoulders, by the curve of his lips and the ripple of smooth muscle beneath his skin and just how close their bodies are.

He can see it. As clear as day, he can see it, he has to. You feel like you’re sinking in it, drowning in the raw ache of your emotions. He has to know.

His eye, that one clear, staring eye, is locked on you. In it, you can see nothing. You can't read him like you usually do, can't tell if his mood leans towards the coherent or the innocent. You are blocked, frozen in fear and desire and anguish. You’re desperate for his love. Somehow, without knowing, without trying, you’re past your limit, past your breaking point. 

The towel slips behind his head, taking your hands with it to slide down the curve of his face. You’re dipping, slowly, imperceptibly, head tilting only slightly as your eyes drop. Your breathing is ragged, your body coursing with fear. What are you doing? What if he pulls away? What if he doesn't? You are terrified of the response of a single fool.

Your courage almost fails you. You stop, frozen, inches from his upturned face, and can't go any further. Your heart will burst. You almost pull away.

His head twitches, leans. Your foreheads press together softly, your hitching breath mingling between the short distance. 

You wonder if he truly knows what's happening, and then you aren't thinking at all.

Who moved first is a mystery neither of you can answer. Your lips drag across one another, slowly, catching on each section of cracked skin, sliding along the smooth areas, moist and tantalizing. A first kiss between two lost souls, a line finally crossed. Your eyes flutter open, meet his gaze in a whirlwind of fear and desire. It's the deciding moment, the grand reveal–your feelings out in the open, exposed. Waiting.

His eyes flicker down to your lips again, and this time it's definitely him who initiates the kiss. Your mouths are brushing, light, over and under, up and back, getting a feel for each other, testing. The towel falls away, your fingers finding skin, delicate touches, sliding into his hair. His hands find your hips, grabbing a bit too roughly, loosening, making their way up your sides. 

The kisses grow heavier, more confident, your mind feels like it's caught in a fog, weighed down and sluggish. He's pulling you closer, meeting your growing hunger with sure responses, almost calm in his actions.

Your lids are heavy but you have to see him, prying your eyes open far enough for his face to come into focus. As though he can feel your gaze, his eyes are suddenly on you, and you are shocked by the passion you see there, the heat emanating from the crisp gold steel. 

Panic surges through you, the panic that stems from the fear of finally getting what you want after so long, the irrational urge to pull away from what you want because you don't know what comes next–or, in fact, you just might know exactly what's to come.

Your head jerks away, breaking eye contact, searching for a way out. Then you’re reaching over, studiously not looking at him, to grab his clothes and drop them in his lap. You’re backing up, backing away, pulling your shirt quickly over your head so you can slip into your jester clothes while he's hopefully busy with his own.

The Amulet of Mara you have jangles against your chest as the fabric that was hiding it is stripped away. The feel of the cold metal on your skin is a shock, reminding you painfully of when you would wear it openly, only around him, in the hopes he'd notice. Now you’re afraid of the door you’ve opened.

There's no sound behind you, no movement. The feel of his gaze on your bare back is burning through you, setting you on fire. Your heart hammers beneath your ribcage. 

It's too much at one time, his acceptance, this overflow of emotions, of want and need and desire and passion and love, all without control. If you don't find a way to stop it all, to stop this connection, you won't be able to stop anything, and you’re not ready for that, not ready for everything when all you’ve had up until now is nothing. It's too physical, too fast. 

“Y/N?” His light, questioning tone, his use of your name, is a strain on your control. It holds no accusations, no confusion, no resentment. He only wonders.

“We should get back.” You reply, wishing he couldn't hear the hoarseness in your voice. You don't know where to go from here.

His throaty laugh resounds and he's bounding in front of you, his usual crooked grin in place, eyes holding no sign of the heat they'd held moments before. “Off we go then! Faithful Cicero will lead the way!”

It's a return to almost-normal, and you’re overwhelmed with feelings of gratitude towards him, feeling the panic ease away with the comfort of the everyday. “At least put on a shirt first,” you manage, dangling his tunic from your fingers with the beginnings of a smile.

“But Cicero likes being in the buff! He thinks he shall take his pants off as well.”

“You take them off and I'm riding Shadowmere back, and you can walk in the snow to Dawnstar!”

You’ve gotten good at pretending. A life as an assassin will do that, but so will hiding your feelings for so long. Now that you find you may not have to hide them anymore, however, you’re guarding them closer than you ever have. You’re pretending everything is normal, and, in a way, it is. Cicero, certainly, acts no differently. It's as if nothing's changed.

You’re not sure if you should be relieved or hurt. 

You’re still wearing that Amulet of Mara, hidden away beneath your clothes. And sometimes, only sometimes, you think you feel his gaze on it.

Somehow, the strangest of conversations has come up in the den of hired killers–romance. You shy away, still holding everything inside, but Babette brought it up and Nazir is scoffing and Cicero is surprisingly interested, soaking it all up as the initiates circle the table, wondering if there is a place for them amongst the comfort of their seniors' banter. 

“What do killers like us know about love?” Nazir demands with cynicism.

“I've been around long enough to have gone down that road a time or two, you know,” Babette snaps back, a cool beauty, arms crossed. A regal child, her years aging her eyes.

“You're ten years old,” he shoots back, looking disturbed. He's the closest thing to proper in the bunch. “And a vampire. How in Oblivion-- you know what, never mind, I don't want to know.”

“Don't be naive,” she shakes her head, eyes narrowed. “Or vulgar. There's more to love than age, appearance, or physicality.”

“Some barriers aren't meant to be overcome.” He mutters darkly.

They exchange a look, long and hard and angry and a bit too tense, an undercurrent running through that you wonder at.

“What about madness?”

The moment is broken as eyes flit to the jester, perched childishly on the stairs, leaning as far forward as he can as though to take in the information faster if he's closer. 

“Cicero wants to know,” he cocks his head, eyes bright. “Is madness a barrier love cannot overcome? Is Cicero unlovable?”

Nazir cringes, obviously not comfortable with this line of questioning, though it might just be Cicero who he's still not comfortable with. He leans away like it will help his escape the man's scrutiny. Babette, however, is more receptive, tapping her chin thoughtfully.

“I don't see why it should be a problem.”

Nazir scoffs. “How is madness not a problem?”

“Love is love, we'll love who we love and love them how we love them, no matter their faults or differences or even our own.” She shrugs, a tiny sage with fangs and glowing red eyes. “Nothing is impossible. No one is unlovable. It's just a matter of finding someone who will love the way you are, or is willing to try to, at least. Even love isn't perfect.”

“And if the one Cicero loves cannot love him like that, then what?”

“You love someone?” Nazir's laugh is a snort. “Now I've heard everything. You'd better not be talking about the Night Mother, because that's just-”

Babette cuts in with a huff. “What did I say about being vulgar?”

Nazir sends a glare her way, then grins darkly. “Maybe he loves you, Babette. Wouldn't that be perfect? The old woman trapped in the little girl's body and the crazy kid trapped inside a grown man.”

A war looks about to break out between the two comrades.

“Cicero doesn't love the unchild,” his nose wrinkles in distaste. 

But they aren't listening anymore, and eventually the initiates manage to insert themselves into the verbal battle, serving as mediators and finding their place as part of the family.

You stay out of it, and so does Cicero, still perched idly on the staircase, listening, it seems, with sporadic attention. You pull away from them, away from him, leaning against the fireplace and fighting the urge to run you don't know where to. 

You want it to be you. You’re dying for it to. You want to tell him that you already know he’s lovable, that you’re the one who loves him. You pray he’s thinking of you, and at the same time are afraid. You love him, but you don't know how to love him. He's different, and that doesn't deter you, but you’re afraid of messing up, of not being what he needs. How do you love him? You know the feeling, but not the act.

Does it matter? If he's talking about someone else, thinking about someone else, a thought you think is ridiculous because how could there be anyone else when his life revolves around their tiny family, if he loves someone else, you feel as though you'll die inside. Your heart will crack, break, and you don't know how you'll handle that.

Is that answer enough? Your mind is raging within, telling you it’s time to throw caution to the wind and just live and learn, and let life teach you the lessons you need along the way. You love him, you want to be with him, you need to just spit it out already.

The war of the vampire and the Redguard is finally over, and the companions go their separate ways, the early dawn sending them all to rest. Cicero is already half asleep on the steps and you tread softly around him, careful not to disturb. You'll sort yourself out in the morning, you think. And as you take a small glance over your shoulder at his back, the broad line of strong shoulders wrapped in cotton, trembling under dozing breathes, you wonder what your indecision has put him through up until now.

You kissed him not too long ago. You never said anything about it again. What did he think, he wonder? What is it like in the mind of Cicero, Fool of Hearts?

He's told you before that he had longed for your position, to be named his mother's Listener, hear the Night Mother's voice. You would gladly have given it to him to make him happy, but at this moment you would give anything to hear the laughter of a dead jester that so haunts his mind. To know, to understand. It might be the link you were missing in your love, this thought, this desire. You feel complete now, somehow. It doesn't make any sense really, but nothing in your life much does anymore.

You’re at the top of the stairs when you feel the presence behind you, when the tickle of breath touches your ear and his soft voice freezes you solid.

“I only love my Listener.”

Your heart hammers, heat rushes through you, and your mind grinds to a halting stop. You can think of nothing, and you wonder if he's really as oblivious of the turmoil he springs raging inside you as his childish antics lead. But for once since that kiss you'd shared, this turmoil isn't panic. The rush doesn't overcome you, but instead you embrace it with a deep breath and the resignation that this is love, you'll probably never figure it out, and you’re okay with that now.

“I've told you, Cicero,” you finally whisper, voice slow and calm and reassured. “It's Y/N.”

“Hm? Oh!” He nods furiously, chastising himself. “Cicero apologizes, he won't forget again. Y/N prefers to be called by name, yes they do.”

“Say it right this time.”

He pauses, turning his head to meet your gaze over his shoulder. He's still smiling that smile, but his eyes are those eyes, and you see the merging of the two halves you’ve tried to divide him into. You felt guilty, like you were taking advantage of a child, but that feeling is gone now, stifled under the blossoming realization that you love each other.

“Say what?” he's asking innocently, like he doesn't know, but his eyes say he does.

“Say you love me.”

“Cicero loves Y/N.” Simply, he says it.

How can a heart beat so fast when a person feels so at peace? you wonder. It's all finally come to this, and you’re happy.

You reach forward to take the back of his collar in hand, leaning in. Your whisper betrays your nerves, but your eyes are firm. “Kiss me again.”

He looks, for a moment, as if he'd like nothing better and will oblige immediately, but then he straightens, setting his face into stern refusal. “No. Not until you say it, too.”

You smile. “That I love you?”

He stiffens for real, his face slipping. He tries to hold his composure, but the longer you stare at each other, the brighter his soft smile. “Yes, that you love me.”

“I love you.” It amazes you how easily the words come out, even after so long, even though your throat feels dry and unforgiving. 

The facade of control is finally gone, and you see one moment of rapturous joy on his face before he's whirled around to take you, snatched up your wrists in his hands and crushed his lips to yours, triumphant.


End file.
